


Made of Ink and Snow

by InkedConstellations



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: I Tried, Ink, Inspired by Music, M/M, Sad Ending, Snow, lots of analogies, there are no happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:56:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7043518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkedConstellations/pseuds/InkedConstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was like a graveyard.</p>
<p>The snow. The ink. Somehow, even with all the noise inside him, the world managed to be silent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made of Ink and Snow

**Author's Note:**

> This is written at the point in time when the order believes Allen Walker to be dead, after the incident with Tyki Mikk and his Tease.  
> I actually wasn't planning to write this, but then I was listening to this song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1jG99z7lVY& and things happened.
> 
> Have some sadness.

The boy himself was like snow. All pale skin and paler hair. His eyes were ice and his smiles cold. White gloves only made the black of his exorcists coat stand out against his flesh, the only color in his face the harsh red of the scar down his left cheek. He looked like freshly fallen snow, where the entire field was smooth and sparkling, with only a single muddy footprint marring the surface. Sometimes he seemed still enough, and frozen enough, to already be dead. 

But then he laughed and the sound was bright enough to melt the world ten times over, even if the whole thing had been frozen over. There was still ice inside him, then, covering his heart so that he never laughed too loudly, never grew close to anybody, never let his hands warm enough to let someone else hold them. But when he did laugh, it was easier to forget just how many pieces inside him were missing. He always cared about the wrong things, and when he cried it was like that cold ice had melted just enough to shift inside his body and cut him to shreds. Sometimes he forgot that while the cold was beautiful, it was dangerous as well.

* * *

The young man was like ink. All hard lines and flowing movements, he was black on black on black on white. Eyes like the bottom of an ink well and hair as smooth as the bristles on a well-kept brush. At first, the stillness with which he held himself seemed unnatural, like a machine, but once he began moving it was as swift and fluid as a mountain cat stalking its prey, and finally catching it. He wasn't broken, he was simply waiting. Always waiting, with long fingers made for holding a sword and lips that never smiled. Sometimes, he seemed thin enough, and watchful enough, to simply fade into the shadows as though he had never existed.

But when he fought that anger disappeared and he was so harsh and quick that nothing in the universe could have denied he was  _alive_ , and staying that way. His smile was like a lion's sharp teeth, more a feral warning than a friendly invitation. He was still motionless, and quiet, then, but it was no longer as if he was waiting. It was if he had found satisfaction, and it was not enough, it would never be enough, but it would do for now. It was easier to wait when he remembered what exactly he was waiting for, and the hatred and anger slowed down enough for him to open his eyes and look past the flower petals on his fingertips to the sky. Sometimes he lost himself in darkness for so long that he forgot shadows existed not only to be frightening, but to protect things that shouldn't be seen.

* * *

 

The snow.

The ink.

When they walked together, black and white footprints, it felt like silence.

It reminded them of a graveyard. A place where there was no pressure to speak, and they could both come to a sort of quiet understanding.

The snow, the ink.

It was like a graveyard, stained red and black and white like the blood both of them had spilled, and despite the chaos the only thing they could hear was a wet coughing. Neither man had ever known the color red could have a sound, but if it did, then it would have sounded like this. Like anger and pain and acceptance, butterflies and laughter in a place where there was only snow and dirty footprints.

Then, the ink.

If red was the sound of dying, then black was the sound of death. It was quiet, hushed like the falling of snow over a battleground, until nothing could be seen anymore. It was quiet, like a graveyard at dawn. Somehow, even with all the noise inside him, the world managed to be silent.


End file.
